


lemme show you the ropes

by ingwertee



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Gallavich, M/M, Post Season 10, it's fluff, larry the PO, mickey & the gallaghers, mickey the babysitter, mickey the old army employee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingwertee/pseuds/ingwertee
Summary: “Mickey, listen to me.” Lip says. He’s holding up his hands again, surrendering. “You know what kind of family you’re a part of now, right? It’s just us. There’s no one else but us. No one’s in charge, okay? We tried that shit out, look where it got us. But I…I just relapsed, Mick, you got that? I just relapsed and it could happen again, and Ian’s meds could stop working when we least expect them to, and Debbie’s in jail and like it or not – and I don’t like it, for the record – you’re looking pretty fucking stable at the moment.”--Family dynamics shift after the wedding. Mickey's not sure he's ready. Not sure he even knows what family is.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 58
Kudos: 532





	1. Chapter 1

Larry’s office wall is quasi-beige. Not exactly beige, but close. The carpet’s the same color. The desk is just a shade darker. Everything about this office is mundane, and Larry, parole officer of uncanny empathy and positivity, seems to make it his purpose in life to conjure up enough optimism to compensate for the dullness of the room.

But Mickey’s found that it’s _his_ purpose in life to tune out Larry during any and all of his pep talks, to fixate his gaze on an aquarium in the corner, stark blue against the bland wall. The kind with that fake coral shit, that self-cleans, and Larry’s got like, max three fish in there, sorta pink-ish fish – Mickey doesn’t know fish names, never been fishing in his life – and Mickey just stares at the container and wonders why Larry just doesn’t put another fish in there, or why he even bothers –

“Mr. Milkovich?”

—it just seems like a half-assed job at creating an aesthetic. Such a big aquarium for three puny fish? Don’t they have, like, forty-day lifespans or something anyway? And for what? They just live out their lives stuck in an 8x3 container, what kinda fucking life is that, anyway—

“Mr. Milkovich.”

Mickey clenches his jaw, finally turns his head towards Larry. He’s still slouched over in his chair, won’t give Larry that much respect, but he’ll turn his head. He’ll listen.

“What?” Mickey asks, when it’s clear Larry is waiting for him to say something.

“Mr. Milkovich, I’d just like to hear your explanation of the events. Just so I’ve got it right.”

Mickey scowls. Fidgets with the ring on his finger. “I told you,” he says, “Ian and I weren’t at that motel.”

“And if you were?”

“Just told you we weren’t.”

“I understand, Mr. Milkovich.” Larry says with extreme deference. He fixes Mickey with an understanding gaze. “But your father is prime suspect in a shooting at this very motel, the morning after you and Mr. Gallagher married. Police said the motel room was empty when they arrived at the scene. That whoever occupied the room the night before paid in cash and didn’t leave a name.”

“Sounds like whoever it was got the message and bounced.”

“And what message would that be?”

Mickey folds his arms across his chest.

“Mr. Milkovich.” Larry sighs. “Mr. Milkovich, I’m not a detective. I’m not suspecting you of anything. I just want to make sure I can be your best advocate if – and that’s if, not when – police come around to ask you about your father. About what you know about that night.”

“Well, I don’t know anything.” Mickey says. “Got nothing for you, man.”

“So your father wasn’t involved?”

“No,” The word leaves Mickey’s mouth before he can even process Larry’s question, the response so engrained in him. Deny, deny, deny. It’s how he was raised. Even for his father. Even for him.

He wants to take the word back immediately, but that would open up a line of questions he doesn’t want to answer, and Larry looks satisfied, like he can discern just by intuition that Mickey is telling the truth. Which he isn’t, of course, but Mickey’s never made a point to stop Larry’s delusions of grandeur before.

“Fine. Well!” Larry lets out a breath he’s been holding in for the both of them. “That’s enough of that. Let’s focus on something else for the remainder of our time, okay? You still haven’t told me about the wedding! Oh, and everything at work still going great? Still enjoying being a member of the Old Army team? Heard you might even be up for a promotion, soon, if you keep up the good work.”

Mickey’s phone buzzes once, twice, three times. He’s so relieved by the distraction he fishes the phone out of his jacket pocket immediately. Glances briefly at the texts.

“Listen, man, I got family shit I gotta take care of.” Mickey says, standing up. “We good here?”

“Oh,” Larry says. “Well, uh, sure. Sure, I guess we can table the work discussion.”

“Cool.” Mickey says absently. He’s already typing a response. He pauses to register Larry has his hand stretched out, and Mickey awkwardly shakes it, ghosts a smile that’s more of a cringe.

He sends the message before he even heads out of the building. It’s to Lip. _I’m on my way._

\--

He feels like he and Ian, collectively, used up all their good karma at the wedding – one whole night’s worth. And it was a perfect night, really, mishaps aside. He fucking married Ian Gallagher; in the end that’s all he wanted. They got a few good fucks in at the motel, slept off the booze, and when they woke up, well, then they almost bit it _Godfather: Part Two_ style.

After the shootout he and Ian stayed down until they were convinced Terry’s goons were gone. That they wouldn’t be shot at again. The telephone in their room ringing over and over – the front desk. Someone would be by soon to check on them. Mickey was sure the police were already notified.

“We gotta bounce.” He says, scrambling for his clothes, heart beating wildly. “We gotta get out of here. Ian, we gotta—”

He doesn’t have to tell Ian anything. His husband’s already slipping on his dress pants, fishing for his shoes, his socks. He finds his phone among the pile of clothes and turns it back on. Tosses a bowtie at Mickey.

Mickey shoves his foot into a shoe. Glances at the clock on the nightstand, tries to think how long it’ll take for the police to get here. If they would even care about some busted up motel on the South Side. He has to assume they’d care, and that finding two parolees at the scene of a shootout wouldn’t be a good look for either Mickey or Ian.

“We got, like, tops five minutes, dude.” Mickey guesses. He doesn’t even bother with the button-down, just slips on the undershirt and calls it a day. Throws the jacket over it. Stuffs the bowtie in his pocket.

But Ian’s stalled. He’s bent over his phone, staring at the screen, brows furrowed.

“Gallagher, you hearin’ me?” Mickey says. “If you’re ready, let’s bounce, man.”

“Debbie’s been arrested.” Ian says with a slight shake of his head, staring at his phone in disbelief. “Mick – Liam sent me this text an hour ago. It must have just happened.”

“Debbie?” Mickey says, ears still ringing from the gunfire, from the bullets whizzing past their ears. They were so close. They really could have— “Debbie?” Mickey hears himself say again.

“Mick—”

But they hear the sirens, then, from a distance, and the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Shit.” Mickey says. “We gotta go.” And then he’s grabbing Ian’s hand, and then they’re jumping out of the shattered window.

When they burst through the back door of the Gallagher home – breathless, disheveled – they find the Gallaghers in the kitchen, sitting at the table like the kitchen’s been made into some sort of makeshift war room. The Task Force to Free Debbie.

When the door flies open they all start – Carl, Liam, Tammi, and Franny – surprised to see each other. Carl and Liam raise their eyebrows simultaneously.

“Why the fuck you two look like that?” Carl asks.

“Guys, what are you doing back here so early?” Tammi asks, adjusting a sleeping Fred in her arms. She stands up quickly, glances at Franny and Liam nervously. “Let’s, uh, let’s go into the other room and have an adult discussion.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Liam says with a sigh from the end of the table. “I’m the one who texted Ian.”

“Someone wanna tell us what’s goin’ on?” Ian asks. He’s caught enough breath to speak. Mickey’s fidgety next to him. Keeps staring out the window, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching.

“Debbie’s in the slammer.” Carl says matter-of-factly. “Fucked a kid.”

Mickey jerks his head back from the window, an incredulous look on his face. “Someone mind translating that?” he asks, but he’s looking at Tammi.

“Okay, this ‘child’ in question is actually seventeen years old, and yes, it’s a statutory rape charge, but Lip is with her now and I’m sure everything will be fine and we don’t need to discuss this in front of children, okay Carl?” Tammi says, voice firm.

“Again,” Liam says, “I know you don’t know me that well, Tammi, but I’m basically an adult.”

“It’s true.” Ian says with a slight shrug when Tammi turns to him helplessly. “Liam’s probably more mature than Carl.”

Carl flips him off. “At least I don’t look like shit. The fuck happened to you two?”

Ian glances at Mickey, who’s still staring out the window intently. “Terry.” He says. Mickeys silent, and Ian doesn’t feel like elaborating. It’s enough of an answer for Carl, anyway. He doesn’t ask any more questions.

\--

After he leaves Larry’s office he takes the orange line and then a bus and then a bus and it’s a full hour before he reaches the courthouse, a long time for him to sit and think, but he mostly just grips the handlebar and stares at everyone around him, sizing them all up, tense until the train exits the South Side and Mickey’s convinced any goons of Terry’s would have chickened out by then, or at least thought better of attacking him in broad daylight somewhere other than home base. Somewhere where the cops are more alert.

The Gallaghers are all already seated in the courthouse gallery, ducks in a row. Lip, Ian, Carl, Liam. Freddie’s in a baby carrier at Lip’s feet, asleep. Liam’s got Franny. Mickey sits down next to Ian, rests a hand on his knee, squeezes. Nods to the rest of the brothers.

Lip’s left leg bounces up and down. He barely acknowledges Mickey – eyes locked on the door that leads to the judge’s chambers. He’s put on a clean shirt, looks presentable. Well, looks nauseous.

“Debbie’s up next.” Ian whispers to Mickey, who nods. He’d guessed that.

He still doesn’t quite get this, this showing-up-to-court-to-support-Debbie thing. He gets it on an abstract level – Debbie lasted longer than any of them doing stupid shit without getting caught, she doesn’t know what this process is like from the other side and is probably scared as hell – but it’s not something he’s ever done in practice. He never went to any of his father’s hearings, or his siblings’ hearings. Nor did any of his family ever say, you know, let’s go to Mickey’s bond hearing. Bet he’s scared shitless, he’s just a kid. You go to jail alone, you get out of jail alone. That’s what Mickey had learned. When Ian first suggested that Lip would want them all at the courthouse, Mickey thought Ian was joking. Thought he was saying that because Franny was in the room, maybe she could understand.

But Mickey’s here now, and Lip definitely wasn’t joking.

When the bailiff tells them to rise, they do. Then they wait for their sister.

\--

The day after their wedding isn’t the picture of marital bliss Mickey had been expecting. Everything’s kinda fucked, what with Debbie in jail and Mickey convinced he and Ian are mincemeat.

Ian spends the day strategizing with Lip, who comes back from the jail without Debbie and without much good news. They go over their options – call her public defender and beg, get Carl to pull some strings with the police—

“Break her out.” Mickey suggests at one point without a hint of irony. He’s half-listening, busy making lunch for himself, and, he supposes, Liam and Franny, who’re both eyeing his sandwich.

“Great idea, Mick.” Lip bites back. “Which one of you parolees is gonna step up to the plate on that one, huh? Or should it be me, with the newborn?”

Mickey shrugs indignantly and returns to slapping sliced bologna on stale white bread with his head down, avoiding what he assumes is a pointed look from his husband.

Then Debbie calls collect, and Lip and Ian scramble for the phone. This time Mickey leaves them to it. Thinks about eating his sandwich but just ends up slicing it into four, sliding the plate to the kids. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes and heads out the door instead.

He goes around to the front of the house and sits on the stoop, certain that if anyone was watching the house they’d do so from the vantage point of in between the neighbors’ homes. He’s not sure the logic checks out on that, but at this point he’s convinced himself it’s fact.

Carl’s already sitting on the stoop, smoking. Staring at his phone.

“Fuck off.” Mickey says and he sits down heavily next to him. “I need a minute.”

Carl scoffs but does as he’s told, standing up and stubbing out his own cigarette. “They’re across the street, two houses down, by the way.”

“Who?” Mickey asks.

“Your dad’s bitches.” Carl says. Then he turns back into the house.

\--

Franny’s inconsolable after the court hearing. Not, like, sobbing, upset that she can’t see her mother. Sure, she’s upset, but she mostly just doesn’t understand what’s going on. She’s angry. Everything’s wrong and no one can do anything to make it better, save her mother, but Debbie’s not coming home like everyone was convinced she would be.

The Gallaghers take the train back, as far as it goes into the South Side before it peters out, filing into the back of the train. Franny’s agitated, hates how long it takes to get from one place to another. Liam and Carl hold onto Freddie’s baby carrier in the seat between them so Lip can hold Franny in his lap. He’s whispering to her, trying to console her. He looks worried, and Franny can tell.

“No!” She keeps saying. “I want Mommy!”

“I know,” Lip says. “I know.” He rubs her small back. “We’re trying really hard to get Mommy back.”

“I want Mommy now!” She wriggles free from his grasp with a little cry as the train rolls to a momentary stop, eyebrows furrowed together, determined to get his arms off her.

“Franny—” it’s Ian who tries to help, now, noting how tired Lip looks. He scoops her up and places her in the seat between him and Lip as people file onto the train, pointedly ignoring the pile of Gallaghers in the back, noting how angry the toddler is.

“Listen, Franny,” Ian says as the train starts up again. “Uncle Carl is going to talk to his friends so that you can call your mom tonight, how about that?”

“No!” Franny says. “I want her here!”

“Franny, right now your mom—”

“No!” Franny positively screams. She’s never been like this. Never so much a Gallagher. And she’s done with this – this discussion, her uncles trying to give her poor substitutes for her mother, this long train ride – and she hops off the seat again, determined to leave, to just walk out the door and find her way back to her mom.

But the train’s moving, and Franny doesn’t expect it to be so hard to find her balance, and as soon as she turns to walk past Ian she loses her balance completely, falls forward before she even realizes what’s happening and then –

And then someone’s gripping her arm, hard, holding her in place so she doesn’t fall.

“Fran.” Mickey says, voice tight. “Cut the crap.”

“No,” Franny pouts, tries to wriggle free from his grasp. “No—”

“You’re pissed? Fantastic. I’m pissed too. But you running around a moving train ain’t gonna help anyone, especially if you fall and hurt yourself. Okay? That’s not what your mom would want.”

Franny’s quiet for a moment, and then her face contorts, and then she’s crying. She doesn’t know what to do with herself, standing in the middle of the train, arm in Mickey’s grasp, shoulders hunched forward and shaking.

“Ah, shit,” Mickey says, and then he’s pulling her up. He wants to place her in the seat next to him but the train is full, now, there’s nowhere to place her. He gives Ian a look but when he tries to hand her off to him she resists. She’s like dead weight, sobbing quietly. So Mickey rather awkwardly places her in his lap. Stiffens when she presses her face into his chest, eyes squeezed shut, wrapping her limbs around him.

All the Gallagher boys are looking at him with a mixture of bewilderment and relief.

“Okay.” Lip says slowly after a while, when he’s convinced Franny won’t try to bolt again. “She’ll cry herself to sleep eventually.”

“Would one of you please take her?” Mickey hisses.

“All you, Mick.” Ian says, holding up his hands. The rest of the Gallaghers follow suit.

“Watch out for the snot, dude.” Carl says as Franny sniffles against him. Mickey flips him off, then places his arms around Franny when the train lurches forward and he’s afraid she’ll go flying. He tugs her closer and she lets him, body shaking with her cries. This earns another look from the Gallaghers, which he pointedly ignores.

\--

Mickey leaves them all to it after they get back home. Returns to the stoop and gets two, three smokes in. There’s a whole bunch of shit to do, apparently. They’ve got to call the social worker and convince her Franny’s safe and well at home, with them, not with Derek’s mom, and definitely not in some foster home. Lip calls the public defender well past seven at night, hoping she’ll answer and that he can convince her to do something to get Debbie out faster. Tammi comes home from work and takes Fred, and Lip goes to an AA meeting almost immediately, strained, frayed by the day’s events. Carl turns in early – he’s got work in the morning, before the sun’s up. Still working that garbage detail, which was really a fuzz detail, or some shit like that Mickey refused to try to understand.

The door opens and Mickey half expects it to be Ian, coming to join him, to wrap his arms around him. They’ve been married a few days now but have only shared a precious few moments alone together. Mickey wants desperately to take him up to their room and just be with him, to take Ian away from all this, but he won’t. Not when it’s been made abundantly clear that in this household arrests matter. That even though Debbie could damn well take care of herself, had taken care of herself since she was – well, whatever. Things were just different with the Gallaghers. Mickey wasn’t used to it.

But instead of Ian, it’s Liam. He doesn’t venture out far. Mickey hears the door open and then nothing else, and he eventually turns around to see the kid standing cautiously away from Mickey, hand on the doorknob, still inside the house.

“‘Sup, bud.” Mickey says, blowing out smoke and stubbing out his cigarette. “Need somethin’?”

“I was looking for you.” Liam says.

“Well congrats, Sherlock, you got me.” Mickey says, turning back around to fix his gaze across the street again. “They still talkin’ shop in there?”

“Yeah.” Liam says. He takes a moment to deliberate, then steps outside, closing the door behind him. He takes a seat next to Mickey after Mickey has to all but invite him to sit down.

Mickey doesn’t offer anything up in the way of conversation, and Liam’s quiet for a bit too. He rests his head heavily in his hands, eyes following where Mickey keeps staring.

“Why do you keep sitting out here?” He asks eventually. “You’re looking for something.”

“More like someone, kid.” Mickey says.

“I think you’re safe here.” Liam says, and when Mickey scoffs he continues, insistent. “I don’t think your dad would try to hurt you with so many witnesses around. What if I get caught in the crossfire? I’m ten; that would look bad.”

“He never cared about how things looked before.” Mickey says. He shakes his head. He wants to say, he told me he’d kill me if I married Ian. He wants to say, I think he actually will. But he doesn’t want to freak the kid out, doesn’t want to give him one more thing to worry about. His sister's in goddamn jail, for Christ’s sake. He’s learning that’s a big deal to the Gallaghers, especially the little ones. So Mickey stands up, pretends like everything’s cool, and shoves his pack of cigarettes and lighter back in his pocket.

“Let’s go in, huh?” he says. “Gettin’ late.”

\--

Two days after his wedding he’s back at work. Honeymoon’s over. Back to running security for the clothing store.

He didn’t make an announcement before he asked for two days off work. Didn’t tell anyone it was because he was getting hitched. When the parolee with the fuck u up tattoo asks for two days off, you just sort of give it to him.

But he’s back now, walking around the store front and back, staring at everyone. He’s likes to keep his mind occupied by pretending everyone’s there to shoplift, and he’s gotta stay on top of it so he doesn’t miss a chance to tackle someone to the ground. Although the last time he did that he was told by his boss that although he appreciated Mickey’s enthusiasm, he would have to “dial it back” if he wanted Old Army to avoid a “lawsuit.”

Even so, he’s especially alert today. He stays in the store all day. Doesn’t take lunch. Doesn’t go out for a smoke. How convenient it would be for his dad’s goons to clip him while out for a smoke, alone, leaning against the brick exterior of the back of the mall where only employees ever venture. A prime location. But they’d never be so stupid as to try anything in a crowded mall with a bunch of affluent white people.

Once he thinks he sees someone suspicious, someone eyeing him, but it turns out to actually be a shoplifter, wary of his security badge and trying to sneak a few belts in his backpack. Mickey’s almost disappointed when he pushes the scrawny guy against the wall, fishes the stolen goods out of his bag. He knows his father’s capable of planning some real demented shit – he’d rather get it over with already. He’s got enough on his mind as it is.

\--

Fourteen days. That’s how long it is until Debbie’s next hearing. Two weeks. For some reason they’re keeping her in jail. Mickey suspects it’s because she’s a Gallagher. That’s enough of a track record as it is. Either way the news hits the family hard.

Mickey comes home from work that night – looking over his shoulder the entire commute back, expecting to be ambushed at every stop – and Liam’s in the kitchen, silently stirring some noodles around in a pot of simmering water over the stove, standing on a step stool to reach the stove better.

“Hi Mickey,” Liam says with his characteristic sigh, barely looking up. Liam never seems that excited to see anyone, but always disappointed to be alone. Ian swears that when he got out of prison Liam was ecstatic, that he ran, beaming, into his older brother’s arms and let Ian swing him around. Acted like a kid his age. Now Liam’s back to this Eeyore shit.

“You here alone?” Mickey asks.

“Yeah.” Liam says. “Ian took Franny to see Debbie. Lip and Tammi are working on the new place. Carl’s in the RV with Fred.” He shrugs. “And I’m here.”

Mickey nods cautiously. Jesus, what’s he supposed to say? Where’s the manual on talking to lonely kids?

Liam’s turned back to staring at the pasta, not paying attention to Mickey, who feels like he’s short circuiting. First Franny’s meltdown on the train and now this. It’s like he’s walking into a trap.

But in other ways it’s easy. Mickey wasn’t exactly surrounded by a loving family as a kid. Didn’t have a mom and had Terry as a father. Had siblings who all orbited around each other but never really trusted each other. Learned from their father that even family was tenuous, that it wasn’t like you were automatically protected by someone just because they were your brother and not a stranger.

“Okay,” Mickey hears himself say eventually. He sits down on the island stool and leans over, glances into the same pot Liam is. “You makin’ enough for two or do I gotta pop somethin’ in the microwave?”

Liam looks up. A smile ghosts his lips. “I’ll share,” he says.

\--

The first time Mickey gets Ian alone again they almost get each other undressed before they’re interrupted.

It starts off fine. Ian and Franny come home, Ian looking grim, Franny looking miserable, face blotchy and red. Mickey and Liam are sitting on the couch, watching the White Sox play. They both look up when the door opens.

“You watchin’ sports, Mick?” Ian smiles in spite of himself. “You lose a bet to Liam?”

“You kiddin’?” Mickey says, standing up. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He’s lying. Ian knows this. He also suspects Mickey’s mostly doing it to keep Liam company, and he’s touched. Shifts Franny onto his hip as Mickey nears him to give him a proper kiss.

“Uncle Mickey,” Franny says when they break apart, reaching for him.

“Oh, uh, hi, kid.” Mickey says, stepping back a little. But Franny’s insistent, and looks so sad, that when Ian hands her to him Mickey ignores the shit-eating grin on his face and picks her up, lets her wrap her arms around his neck.

“How’d it go?” Mickey asks, pretending like this is normal. This is normal. Totally normal that he’d be holding Debbie Gallagher’s kid like this. That she called him “Uncle Mickey.” Everything’s fine.

Ian’s smile fades a little. “I’ll tell you about it later, huh?”

“Yeah.” Mickey nods.

“Liam, you here for a while?” Ian asks, glancing at his brother.

“It’s only the fourth inning.” Liam says. “Why?”

“You holding Franny like this is kind of turning me on.” Ian says, with a faux-helpless shrug, speaking quietly so Liam can’t hear. “Kinda wanna—”

“Okay, we’re putting her down.” Mickey says, unlatching Franny from his neck and plopping her on the couch next to Liam, who glances at his niece but doesn’t say anything. Pushes the bowl of popcorn towards her.

"Put her to bed, okay?" Ian tosses behind him to Liam as Mickey takes Ian by the arm. The two leave without another word, bounding up the stairs, quickly shutting their bedroom door behind them.

Ian laughs, pressing Mickey up against the wall. He places his hands on either side of him, leans down to capture Mickey’s lips with his own.

“Feels like it’s been a fucking year, man.” Mickey admits, hands snaking around Ian’s waist, grabbing his ass. Bites his lip when Ian grinds against him.

“A year, Mick?” Ian smirks. “Exaggerate much?”

“Fucking take your shirt off, pussy.” Mickey says, pushing Ian aside to slip off his work polo. He pulls down his khakis and sits on the bed, looking at Ian expectantly.

“You weren’t kidding.” Ian says, but he’s playing with him, taking his time getting undressed.

“Watching all those baseball players with those tight asses?” Mickey says. “Can’t joke about that, man.”

“Sounds like I should be jealous.” Ian says. He kicks off his jeans and leans over Mickey, starts kissing his neck. Grins when he hears Mickey whimper. “Shouldn’t have left you here all alone.”

“Mmm, yeah.” Mickey says, wrapping his arms around Ian’s back. “Yeah—"

Ian starts to reach towards Mickey’s boxers, but at the same time Mickey noticeably stalls, hands going limp against Ian’s back. Ian pauses, looks up.

“Mick?”

Mickey shakes his head before Ian even finishes saying his name. “No, no,” he says mostly to himself, trying to shake the thoughts out of his head, trying to stay present. “I’m good.” He kisses Ian, pulls him close again, lets Ian’s tongue tangle with his. They lean back onto the bed, Ian gripping his arms, but soon Mickey loses the rhythm of their kiss again.

“Okay,” Ian says, pulling back. He rests his forehead against Mickey’s briefly before he rolls off him, settles on his back and props himself on his elbows. “What’s going on?”

Mickey’s still splayed on the bed. He flops an arm over his face. “Don’t –” he starts, chest tight, “let’s just – c’mere.” He reaches for Ian. “C’mon.”

Ian looks like he wants to say something, wants to protest, but he lets Mickey wrap an arm around his chest, tug him forward. He tilts his head –

The door opens. No knock. No announcement. Just opens. Mickey jerks back at the creaking of the door, nearly jumps out of his skin, convinced it’s his dad’s henchmen, that the kids are dead in a pile of blood downstairs, that they’re here to finish the job.

But it’s little Franny, holding onto a stuffed animal, in her pajamas. “I can't sleep,” she whines.

“Jesus fuck.” Mickey whispers. He sits up, puts his head in his hands. Tries to calm his breathing.

“Franny, hey,” Ian says, voice gentle, like everything’s cool, like Franny had walked in on Mickey and Ian playing fucking checkers. He walks over to her and leans down, rubs her shoulder. “Can’t sleep, huh?”

“Not without Mommy.” Franny says. She hugs her stuffed animal closer to her chest. “When I have a bad dream, Mommy lets me sleep with her.”

“Oh yeah?” Ian says.

Mickey notes that Ian adopts this soft, slightly high-pitched voice when he talks to anyone under five. Lip does the same thing. And Debbie. He’s even heard Liam pull out the Voice every once in a while. He supposes it’s some kind of thing you do when you talk to kids. Or dogs. He doesn’t get it. You wouldn’t catch him dead doing that.

But the Voice method seems to work, because Franny nods, looking up at Ian with wet eyes.

“Would you feel more comfortable if you slept with me and Uncle Mickey tonight?” Ian asks for her.

Franny nods. A tear escapes one of her eyes, slides down her cheek.

“Okay, sweetie.” Ian says. He picks her up, rubs her back. “We’ll get your mom home before you know it.”

When Ian turns towards the bed Mickey is trying his very hardest to convey his disapproval of this idea without actually saying so, but Ian refuses to look at him. Instead he sets Franny down on the opposite end of the bed than Mickey.

“There,” he says, tucking her in. “I’ll turn off the light in a few seconds, okay, Fran?”

“It’s 8:30.” Mickey says.

“It’s past her bedtime.” Ian returns.

Mickey sees there’s no way to win this battle. “Fine,” he says, then drops his voice to a whisper. “This ain’t happenin’ after tonight.”

“Just for tonight, Mick.” Ian says as he heads out the door and into the bathroom. Then: “Besides, we weren’t doing anything.”

\--


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note there are some homophobic slurs in this chapter.

When Larry meets him next it’s during his lunch break. Larry convinces him to meet in the food court, promises the grub’s on him, says it’ll be good to get out of the stuffy office. Mickey’s not so sure.

He sits at a corner table, at a vantage point where he can view the entire open area, all the kiosks and the booths and the people. He’s watching this man who looks the slightest bit Eastern European with such intensity, trying to figure out if he knows him, if he could have worked for Terry, when Larry appears, jovial and loud as always.

“Mr. Milkovich!” Larry says.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mickey says, caught off guard. He didn’t even see Larry come up to him. The man he’d been profiling takes his slice of pizza and leaves.

“You waiting for someone else?” Larry asks innocently, turning around, trying to follow Mickey’s gaze.

“No.” Mickey says after his breathing returns to normal. He doesn’t feel like elaborating.

“Great! Well, then let’s get lunch, huh?”

When they return to the table Mickey resumes his position, chair slightly angled so he can view the food court better. He takes a cautious bite of orange chicken. Larry doesn’t seem perturbed – in fact, he’s used to Mickey barely making eye contact by now. He holds a piece of fried chicken in one hand and with the other pulls out Mickey’s file. Flips through it. Pulls a pen out of his breast pocket.

“Well, then, Mr. Milkovich. You get that family matter taken care of?”

Mickey frowns, actually tilts his head to glance at Larry. “The what?”

“The family matter.” Larry says. “The reason you had to leave our last meeting early?”

“Oh.” It’d been a week since Debbie’s first court date. “Not really,” Mickey says. “But whatever.” He adjusts in his chair, tries to shift his weight around, off his back.

Larry takes the cue, returns to his folder. The two settle into the autopilot portion of their meetings. “Any issues at work?”

“No.”

“Any contact with your father?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

“No.”

Larry prattles off a bunch of other things he’s supposed to avoid, places he can’t go to, people he can’t associate with. Mickey answers the same way every time.

“Any issues at home?”

When Mickey hears this question he doesn’t answer right away.

“Any issues at home?” Larry tries again.

“No.” Mickey says.

“Great!” Larry says. “That’s taken care of.” He closes the folder. “Well?” He says expectantly, pushing his bowl of chicken in front of him. “What’s new with you?”

This is the worst part. This is the part where Mickey starts looking at that aquarium.

He’s talked to other parolees – their POs don’t do this shit. They run through their list of questions, get their cup of pee, and leave. See you next week. Not Larry.

Mickey shrugs, shovels some food into his mouth. But Larry keeps looking at him, friendly smile on his face.

“Look,” he says, swallowing. “I appreciate the lunch. Thank you. I think we’re good for the week.”

“Mr. Milkovich,” Larry says. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that something’s on your mind.”

Mickey lets out a huff of breath but doesn’t say anything. Continues to eat.

“Mr. Milkovich,” Larry starts, mouth full, setting down a bone and reaching for another chicken leg. “If I may – I heard from some colleagues that your sister-in-law was arrested recently.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. Of course he had. “Look—”

“I took the liberty of looking into her case.” Larry continues. “Now, I’m no lawyer—”

“Can you get her out?” Mickey interrupts.

“Well, no—”

“Then there’s nothing to talk about.” Mickey snaps. “It ain’t your problem.”

“Aha, so there is something bothering you!” Larry says, not the least bit upset at Mickey’s tone.

“What’s bothering me is trying to sleep with a toddler kicking you in the spine all night.” Mickey says. “I mean – the fuck – how many bad dreams can a four-year-old fucking have? From what I heard her mom was hardly even in the picture – dumped her kid on anyone she could find – but the second she’s gone suddenly her kid can’t take it?”

Larry doesn’t know what to say at first. It’s the most Mickey’s ever said to him. Mickey himself looks surprised. “Well,” he says eventually, only somewhat grasping the situation at hand, “after all, a mother’s a mother.”

Mickey looks at him incredulously. “The fuck does that mean?”

“Well,” Larry shrugs, at a loss, “just that, you tend to notice when Mom’s out of the picture, even if you don’t see her that often.”

“Okay, great, well, guess I wouldn’t know.” Mickey mutters. He pushes his food aside. He’s clocked someone staring at him from across the food court, and he’s itching to go up to the guy and just pound the shit out of him. At this point it wouldn’t matter to him if this guy had ever even stepped foot on the South Side. He was just so sick of looking over his shoulder.

But it wouldn’t help a goddamn thing to beat someone up unprovoked in front of the one guy who could send him back to prison. So instead Mickey stands up, ready to head back to work. “We good here?”

\--

The next day is Sunday, and it’s the first day in a while that the Gallaghers are all under the same roof at the same time – minus Debbie, of course. They spend the day working on Lip and Tammi’s new place. It’s coming along pretty well, for being done by a bunch of fuckups, the only one knowing anything about construction being Lip, a newborn and a toddler to look after all the while. Mickey thinks Larry’d be proud of him, spending the whole day doing non-illegal activities. Then he thinks it’s fucking weird to care what Larry thinks and is glad he didn’t say that out loud.

They order sandwiches for dinner and while they wait for Carl to go pick them up Mickey and Lip walk back down the alley to the Gallagher home to get cups and something to drink for everyone. They don’t say anything to each other but it’s a comfortable silence. They’re both wearing old shirts of Frank’s, which have all been added to a pile of shirts worn only for dirty work and never in public, and which Frank has either completely forgotten about or doesn’t care enough to take back. A lot of Frank’s stuff is used like that. For Lip it’s tradition – another chance to ruin one of Frank’s shirts. For Mickey, it’s necessity. He doesn’t have any old clothes. Doesn’t have much old anything. The things he expressly told Mandy he wanted kept before he got locked up went into a couple suitcases, and then when Mandy left his brothers took the suitcases and poked around like they were excavating for dinosaur bones. And then what they didn’t want they shoved into a garbage bag, and what eventually arrived at the Gallagher house, all those years later, was a bunch of shit that was important to Mickey five, six years ago that didn’t mean a thing to him now, and certainly nothing useful like any article of fucking clothing.

“Yo, Mick.” Lip calls from the kitchen while Mickey scours the living room for Franny’s sippy cup.

“What?”

“C’mere a sec.” Lip says.

Mickey finds Fran’s cup and snatches it, then heads into the kitchen, holding it up like a prize. “Got it.”

“Cool.” Lip says absently, not even turning around. “Check this out, man.”

He’s got one of the cabinet doors open, the cabinet with the squirrel fund, which Mickey notes is looking a little low. Lip pushes the jar aside and pulls out a bunch of loose papers haphazardly paperclipped together. He waves them at Mickey.

“This is where we keep medical records. Immunizations. Hospital visits. Anything like that.” He says. He waits for Micky to respond, to make sure he understands what he’s saying.

Mickey gives an indignant shrug. “Congrats.” He says.

“Liam still gets an annual checkup at the clinic. ‘Cause of the overdose. Doc just wants to make sure everything’s workin’ okay.” Lip continues. “And here,” he sets the papers down, flips through them a little. “This is Franny’s stuff. When she starts kindergarten they’ll wanna see this stuff. Make sure she’s got her shots.” Lip flips through some more pages. “And we got shit here for Carl, Debbie, everyone. I, uh, I’ve got my sponsor’s name and number here…and anything to do with Ian’s dosages we keep here, too, but you probably know about that better than I do.” Lip looks up, fixes Mickey with an indecipherable look again. “Okay?” he says.

“Yeah, man.” Mickey says, uncomfortable. He fidgets, reaches for the cups Lip’s placed on the counter for something to do. “Whatever.”

He’s not sure why Lip’s telling him this, him and not Ian, him and not Carl, or even Tammi. He watches Lip put the papers back and then reach for the jug of lemonade like nothing even happened, like he had just told Mickey what the weather would be like tomorrow.

“Cool,” Lip echoes Mickey. “Let’s head back.”

\--

He wakes up in the middle of the night when he feels Ian stir next to him. It’s hard not to wake up when there’s three people in one double bed, and the one trying to get out of the bed is the one in the middle. He pretends to sleep while Ian all but hops over him and off the bed, while he shuffles out of the room. He hears Franny adjust to the empty space next to her, rolling over slightly, little monster feet getting dangerously close to Mickey’s back. Mickey waits a few moments before he gets out of bed too and shuts the door behind him.

He knocks on the bathroom door. “Ian?”

There’s the sound of running water and then the door opens. Ian looks bleary eyed, a little sheepish. “Sorry if I woke you,” he whispers. Then, by way of explanation: “Gotta headache.”

“Here, let me in.” Mickey says. Ian opens the bathroom door wider and Mickey slips in, sits down on the lip of the tub. He’s exhausted from working all day and the nightly routine of getting Franny to sleep, but he’s also selfish – he pounces on any moment alone with Ian. They’re few and far between these days.

Ian sits down on the closed lid of the toilet, rests his arm on the sink to prop his head up. “Missed me, huh?” he says with a tired smirk.

“Fuck off.” Mickey says, but it’s with a warmth Ian recognizes immediately. He smiles before he runs a hand along his forehead, closing his eyes.

“What’s on your mind, huh?” Mickey asks.

Ian shakes his head. Lets out a breath. “My PO may have found me a job,” he says, hand rubbing circles into his freckled forehead.

“Yeah?” Mickey says. “EMT work?”

“Yeah.” Ian says. He opens his eyes. “Night shift.”

“Oh.”

Ian nods. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s clearly been on his mind all night.

“You gonna take it?”

“Not sure I have a choice.” Ian says. “If I can’t get a job soon they’ll send me back to prison.” He scoffs. “And it’s not like anyone else has been eager to hire a psycho felon.”

“Hey,” Mickey says softly.

“Mick,” Ian says, “if I take the job I’ll barely see you anymore.”

Mickey thinks he should deflect, thinks he should say you kidding? We’ll have at least a few hours when we’re both awake. But he’s not sure. Mostly he’s thinking about Ian on a night schedule, hardly seeing the sun. That can’t be good on your mental health, not seeing the sun, not seeing your family as much. That worries Mickey.

He says nothing and instead stands, places a hand on the back of Ian’s neck, rubs his thumb along the soft skin there. “C’mon,” he says softly, pressing a kiss on the top of Ian’s head. Ian leans against him. “Let’s go back to bed. We can figure this out in the morning.”

\--

“Not sure he has a choice,” Lip echoes his brother the next morning. It’s the before-work crowd in the kitchen, eating quickly before they begin their morning commutes. Mickey, Lip, Tammi. Carl’s already gone. Ian’s been looking after the kids while he’s been out of work. The news that he might have a job lined up comes as a surprise.

“Yeah.” Mickey says. “I’m not sure he does either.” He’s leaning against the sink, eating cereal, coffee on the counter next to him. Tammi and Lip are leaning against the island, doing the same.

“When does he start?” Tammi asks.

Mickey shrugs.

“If it’s before Debbie’s out we might be fucked.” Lip says. He sets the cereal bowl down, takes a gulp of coffee. He’s gotta head out. It’s Mickey who should be heading out, he’s got the longest commute of any of them, but he’s not eager to leave.

“Listen, Mickey, one more thing.” Lip says as he slips on a jacket. “Fran’s social worker is coming over tonight. She’s gonna ask about this—” and then he’s reaching into another goddamn kitchen cabinet again, pulls out another few crumpled pieces of paper. “—and want to know about this.” He hands the papers to Mickey. “Just show ‘em to her and she’ll be satisfied. She may ask a few other questions; you’ll know the answer to them. We just need to prove to her that Franny’s safe here with us. I’ll get back when I can but if you don’t know what to do ask Ian or Carl or Liam. They’ve been through this plenty of times. And I know you know how to deal with social workers. So.” He looks at Mickey expectantly. “We cool?”

Mickey looks down at the papers, then back up at Lip. “I—”

“Great, I gotta go.” Lip says. “Thank you, Mick.” He drinks the last of his coffee and leans over to kiss Tammi quickly. “See you tonight.” He says.

“Bye.” Tammi says, and soon she’s putting away her own bowl, getting ready to leave as well. Neither seem to notice Mickey standing stock still in the kitchen, holding onto the papers Lip’s shoved in his hands, not sure what to do with himself.

\--

At half past one his boss comes up to him, emerging from a sales rack as if conjured into existence by the outlet mall gods.

“Mikhailo, hiiii.” He says, greeting him like he always does – with a healthy degree of caution. “Everything okay with you today?”

Mickey tries to hide his palpable irritation. “Should something not be okay?”

“Can’t help but notice you haven’t been taking your lunch breaks recently.” The boss plows on, like if he doesn’t say what he’s planned to say now he’ll never get the opportunity again. “Please know you’re encouraged to do that.”

“Got it.” Mickey says.

He goes back to scanning the store, arms crossed against his chest.

“Uh,” his boss clears his throat. “Mikhailo?”

“What?” Mickey snaps.

“It’s just, I can’t keep paying you for an extra half hour’s work. It adds up. So if—”

“Fine.” Mickey says, getting the gist. “Whatever, man.” He rips his headset off and heads towards the back of the store.

If his boss wanted him to go stand outside for half an hour and risk getting fucking mowed down by one of Terry’s guys then fine, that’s what he’d do, far be it from him to risk his parole by not eating his fucking ham sandwich.

He clocks out but doesn’t risk going outside. Ends up going to one of the dressing rooms and shuts the door. He sits down in a chair and pulls out his phone, thinking maybe he’d see if Ian’d texted him while he was working, see if he’d landed his job yet.

But he’s only got two texts when he turns on his phone. They’re from Carl. Sent over an hour ago.

_Some dudes found me at work and were asking about you. Keep your head up._

Then, a few minutes later, _Dude I think they’re headed your way._

“Shit,” Mickey breathes out, closing his eyes briefly. He immediately calls Carl, but there’s no answer. Mickey tries again. No answer.

“Shit, shit, shit.” It’s one thing to go after Mickey. Mickey knew they’d go after him; his dad never seemed to care that much about Ian, or any of the Gallaghers, for that matter. If Terry ever went over to the Gallaghers’ place to scream at Mickey it was always just at Mickey. You know, streamlined homophobia.

 _Call me back._ Mickey texts. Then: _You still got eyes on them?_ Then: _Call me back._

But Carl’s not answering, and Mickey tries to type out another text but he realizes to his surprise that his hands have started to shake. He slips his phone back in his pocket, runs a trembling hand along his face.

He finds his boss, hands him the headset. He thinks that a few years ago he wouldn’t even have given his boss this courtesy. Look how much he’d fucking matured.

“Got shit to deal with.” He says curtly. “See you tomorrow.”

“Mikhailo?” His boss calls after him, bewildered, but Mickey’s already walking out of the store, slipping on his jacket, sleeves long to hide the shiv he’s pulled from his pocket.

\--

Carl’s right. Mickey tries to stay among the crowd of mall shoppers for as long as possible but as soon as he heads towards the bus stop he spots them.

There’s two of them, smoking at the end of the block. He doesn’t know either but they look like his father’s type, meaning they look as out of place as he does out of the South Side, all tattoos and pale skin and faded, oversized jackets. Jesus, they must have a couple shivs a piece stuffed in those jackets. Maybe some heat.

But they’re stupid to try to do anything in the middle of the day. Mickey pretends like he doesn’t see them and walks across the street, past the bus stop, trying to get them off his ass. Tries to reroute his trip in his head – he knows he can catch another bus two blocks over, and if they’re still on his ass then he can try –

They’re still on his ass.

Mickey picks up the pace. Weaves around businesspeople and yoga pants-clad runners. Wishing he wasn’t wearing a fucking lilac polo. He sticks out like a sore thumb, plus he looks like a pussy.

But the more he runs away the more pissed off he gets. That his dad’s in prison but still ruining his life. That he’s fucking running away from a couple of punk bitches because he doesn’t want to get the police involved. That he has to think about that sorta shit because Larry’s breathing down his neck, because he’s “conditionally released,” and on no fucking condition is he going back to prison without Ian, and he’s pissed because he’s not just Mickey anymore, he’s Mickey with a husband and these kids, these kids who are fucking lonely, and for some reason he’s taken it upon himself to make sure that their childhood is only half as shitty as his was, as Ian’s was, and that means that he can’t fucking—

“Fuck it.” Mickey says, stopping dead in his tracks. He takes in a deep breath.

“Yo!” He yells when he turns around, locking eyes in the middle of the crowded street with the two hired muscles, who have skidded to a surprise stop. “You two wanna chat? Let’s fucking have a chat.”

\--

There’s a moment in every man’s life where he realizes maybe, just maybe, it’s time to trade in the motorcycle for the sedan. Or the, like, just any one of those four-door cars with the—fuck it, Mickey drives like twice a year, max, he doesn’t know cars.

What he’s trying to say, what he’s thinking about when he finally makes it home, hand cradling his side, is that he’s a little rusty. He’s thinking to himself, that could have gone better.

But it’s fucking debilitating, being called faggot over and over in English and Ukrainian and whatever the fuck other language the second guy kept slipping into, Polish maybe. Not just that, the name-calling only mildly bothers him, but they were stronger than they looked. He got a few punches in, kicked one guy in the throat, but the bigger guy clocked the shiv he was gripping early on and knocked him to the ground with a swift punch to the gut.

He’s tired and more than a little shaken, although he’d never say that, had never said the word “shaken” in his life, and he just wants to slip into bed and go to sleep, maybe let Ian fuss over him a little bit, maybe drink enough beers to ensure he won’t wake up in the middle of the night remembering what just happened, maybe skip the beer entirely and go straight to the hard stuff—

But he opens the front door and there’s a stranger sitting in the chair in the living room, clipboard in her hand, and Liam and Franny are sitting on the couch, Liam stiff as a board.

And Mickey’s pulled back into reality, just like that.

They all turn to look at him when the door opens. And then Franny’s hopping off the couch, running towards him, and Mickey has to act fast to hide his knife.

“Uncle Mickey!” Franny says, and she wraps her arms around his legs.

It’s enough of an introduction for the social worker, who watches the scene with an appraising eye.

“What, the party start without me?” Mickey asks, faux casual, like he doesn’t have a split lip, like he isn’t covered in sweat and fairly dazed. Liam’s giving him a desperate look from the couch, and it tugs on Mickey, the look, in a way he doesn’t know how to express, so he reaches down, picks up Franny, settles her on his good side, and begins the Social Worker Show.

He’s not sure how it goes at the Gallagher’s. Liam looks a little spooked; maybe he’s out of practice. But Mickey was raised to dial it up to an eleven when the social worker stopped by, all smiles and yes ma’am’s and offering water and saying things like _my dad always helps me with my homework._ Social workers loved that shit. Some social workers knew better, knew a lie when they heard one, split the kids up and sent them to group homes anyway, but only the old bitches did that. This one looked new. Mickey was hoping she wouldn’t know too much about the Gallaghers. Or the Milkoviches.

He walks into the house a little bit, looks around. The place seems deserted. Everyone was still at work. Ian must be somewhere. Meeting with his PO, Mickey remembers.

“Want some coffee or something?” he asks the social worker, standing halfway between the living room and the kitchen, convinced Carl would appear at some point.

“No, uh, I was just –” she looks flustered. She’s young, maybe twenty-three. Box braids that trail down to the small of her back. Expensive clothes. She’s not from here. That might work to Mickey’s advantage.

“You live here?” she finally asks.

“Yeah.” Mickey says, like it’s obvious, like it’s a stupid question to ask. Then he remembers he supposed to be nice. Plasters on a smile. “You the social worker Lip was telling me about?”

“Yes,” she says. “Usually I speak with Philip, or Deborah—”

“Mickey’s married to my brother Ian.” Liam interrupts. “He came back from work early to meet you.”

“That’s right, bud.” Mickey says. He comes to join Liam on the couch. Sets Franny down on his lap. He glances at the social worker. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Oh, um, that’s all right, I just, I don’t have your name on this list…”

“I’m Mickey.” Mickey says unnecessarily. He holds out his hand. Smiles again. “Hi.”

“Malia.” She says and shakes his hand. It’s awkward. His hand’s slick, he’s got bits of gravel under his fingernails. He’s shaking slightly.

As he reaches over, his jacket pulls aside, and Liam, sitting next to him, sees the bloodstain. Liam freezes, elbows Mickey. Mickey drops Malia’s hand immediately and pulls his jacket tight against him.

“You here about Debbie?” he cuts to the chase.

“I’m here for Franny, but I suppose I’m here on account of Deborah, yes.” Malia says, then hesitates. “I’m sorry,” she says, clicking the pen in her hand rapidly. On off on off on off. “How long have you lived here again? Are you…do you look after these children?”

“I do what I can.” Mickey says, trying humble out for size. “I ain’t Debbie, but I’ve been helping out recently.”

“Mickey makes dinner for us.” Liam says. It’s a bald-faced lie but Mickey nods intently. “And Ian and Mickey have really helped out with Franny.”

“Have you noticed any setbacks with Franny since her mother’s arrest?”

 _The fuck kinda question is that,_ Mickey thinks, holding Franny to his chest. _Her fucking mom was arrested how the fuck should she—_

“Just normal stuff.” Liam says before Mickey can speak. He shrugs. “It’s been hard for everyone.”

“I have to say, Mickey, the charge against Debbie is quite serious—”

“It ain’t, really.” Mickey says. “Debbie’s barely eighteen to begin with.” He thinks maybe she’s nineteen, maybe even twenty, but he doesn’t know for sure and it’s not like he’s gonna keep track of how old the Gallaghers are. They’re all grown, that’s all Mickey knows. “She’s gettin’ out of jail in a few days and then things’ll be back to normal.”

“Do you things will go back to ‘normal’ so quickly?” Malia challenges. “Do you think Franny will react that way, like nothing happened?”

“Ye—”

“There will be a readjustment period,” Liam says, using a phrase Mickey’s heard himself from one or two social workers.

“Right.” Mickey says. “It’ll take Franny some time. But she’s got a bunch of uncles looking out for her.” Smile. Hold. Breathe steadily.

“Have you been in contact with Franny’s father’s side?” Malia asks next.

“Don’t have to.” Mickey says, and then he’s reaching into his jacket pocket on his bad side, pushing aside the shiv, pulling out the crumpled pieces of paper Lip had given him that morning. He didn’t even realize he had taken them with him until halfway through the morning.

The corner of one of the papers is stained with fresh blood. Liam’s shoulders drop when he sees this. Malia notices as well. It’s a fucking big drop of blood, but red as a rose, and as Mickey uncrumples the papers and hands them to Malia, he gives it his best shot.

“That’s just paint. I’m doin’ a construction detail on the North Side. Sometimes you take the work home with you.”

He’s not sure if she believes him – Liam looks unconvinced – but she doesn’t pursue it. “What are these?” she asks, flipping through the papers.

“Papers from Franny’s dad’s side.” Mickey said. “Signing away their rights. And from the grandma, too.”

“Were these filed in court?” Malia asks.

 _How the fuck should I know?_ “Yeah.” Mickey says. “Before I came back to town, yeah.”

“I see. And where were you?”

“Out of town.” Mickey repeats. Then: “Work.”

“Construction, right?”

“Right.” Mickey answers automatically, and then he gets that goddamn feeling in his chest again, that if he gets caught in this lie it’s all shot to hell, so he clears his throat and says, “I work in retail actually. Do security at this clothing place. I just uh…do a little construction to make ends meet sometimes.”

“I understand,” Malia says, and there’s a hint of a smile for the first time, and she’s noticing how Franny’s got her head against his chest contentedly, and how close Liam is next to him, and Mickey thinks they may be onto something.

“Sorta knew what I was signing up for when I got hitched but I – It’s still – sometimes it hurts the wallet, that’s all.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Few weeks.” Mickey says.

“Oh wow, congratulations.” Malia says. She gives him a real smile this time. Liam visibly relaxes.

“Yeah, thanks.” Mickey says. “But listen, you know, Franny don’t have any problems here. This is the only place she’s known—” maybe that’s a lie – “and we’re the only family she’s got. When her mom comes home it’ll be best for Franny if she was in her own room, you know, with her own things.” Franny stirs a little, and he doesn’t want her to wake up and say something incriminating so he rubs her back to lull her back into sleep.

“She does seem very comfortable here.” Malia admits. She hands the papers back to Mickey. “And I’m not Liam’s case worker, but he seems comfortable, too.”

“I am.” Liam insists.

Malia looks down at her clipboard. “Listen,” she says, “I’m new at this. I don’t have a lot of pull but I’ll report back to my supervisor and—”

The door opens and Ian’s back, carrying a uniform on a hanger over his back and a binder under his arm.

“Oh, hi.” He says. He locks eyes with Mickey briefly before plastering on an unassuming smile. Ian’s been out of prison just a little longer than Mickey – he doesn’t know this social worker either, but he’s been through enough visits just like this to know what the woman’s here for. “Did uh, did someone get you something to drink?”

“I was just leaving, actually.” Malia says. She stands up, putting her clipboard back into her purse. “It was nice to meet you, Mickey. Please tell Philip I’ll be in contact with him soon.”

“Okay,” Mickey says.

“Okay.” Malia says. She reaches out her hand again, remembers how clammy Mickey’s was before, and quickly drops hers again. Smiles awkwardly. “Goodbye.” She says.

When she’s gone there’s a beat of silence, the three not sure what to do with themselves. The social worker’s gone but the tension that came with her visit is still there, still palpable.

“Hey,” Mickey says, softly rubbing Franny’s back. “Wake up, kid. You did great.”

“Debbie’s trained her to sleep during social work visits.” Liam says. Mickey almost laughs, but with the social worker gone the pain in his side rears, and his hands start shaking again even though he’s home now, even though he’s just with his husband and these damn kids who’ve become important to him. He should feel better. He should feel safer—

“Ian,” Liam says then, turning around. “Franny reeks.”

“Hey.” Franny says. She’s waking up groggily but hears what Liam says. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t!”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Ian asks, laying his uniform along the lip of the couch, leaning over to kiss the top of Mickey’s head. He pauses, notices how pale Mickey is.

“I think she needs a bath.” Liam continues.

“I think you need to get a better excuse.”

“Ian, Mickey and I need to have a talk.” Liam says firmly. “In private.”

_You wanted to chat, huh, faggot? Well here’s a message from your father._

“Mick—?”

“I don’t know, man,” Mickey sighs as Franny climbs off of him. “Just do what he says.”

“Ohhkay.” Ian says slowly, unconvinced, but he takes Franny by the hand and leads her upstairs.

As soon as they’re out of sight Liam rounds on Mickey. “Are you okay? You should have called me.”

Mickey’s got his head in his hands. He’s breathing in and out as steady as he can. “The fuck are you talking about?” he mutters into his palms.

“I told you I was your insurance policy.” Liam says.

“I don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

“Your dad sent some guys after you.” Liam says. “Right? Because you married Ian.”

“You hear from Carl today?” Mickey interrupts. When Liam shakes his head Mickey scowls, stands up. His side aches. He pulls back his jacket a little, finally glances down at his polo.

“Shit.” He says. The left side of his shirt is splotched with blood. He tugs his jacket tighter around himself, hoping Liam didn’t notice.

“You should go to the hospital.” Liam says. His voice is small, he seems less confident.

“I’m not going to a fucking doctor.” Mickey says. “Got shit to do.”

\--

Lip gets back a few minutes later. He’s taken to getting to work early so he can leave work early, and then he goes straight to the nearest AA meeting he can find. By the time he gets home usually someone’s unfrozen something and set it out on the table.

But tonight, after he greets Tammi and Fred in the RV he slips through the back door of the home and sees Liam at the kitchen table alone, eating a hot pocket. He and Lip lock eyes. Liam shakes his head quickly. _Don’t._

The kitchen looks like a warzone. The cabinets are all thrown open, and Lip finds Mickey on his knees, sifting through whatever junk was stored in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Surrounded by crumpled papers, a few crushed beer cans.

“Yo, Mick.” Lip says cautiously. “What’s goin’ on, man? Where’s the fire?”

“I don’t know, Lip, you gonna tell me where the rest of the shit is?” Mickey retorts, and his tone is a mix of steely and strained. He’s defensive, tense, favoring one side as he stands up. He’s got a split lip, some scratches on his cheek, like he’d been pushed against the ground face first.

“Mick—”

“No, no, don’t fucking ‘Mick’ me, just fucking tell me where it is!”

“Okay, okay.” Lip says, holding up his hands. “Tell me what you’re talkin’ about, dude.”

“The shit!” Mickey snaps unhelpfully. “The—” he gestures towards the papers. Picks some up, throws them towards Lip in his frustration. “The immunization shit. The medical papers. Forms for the social workers. The fucking…the fucking bills, I don’t fucking know.” He waits for Lip to answer, and when he doesn’t he starts up again. “Huh?” he demands. “You wanna dump this family on me so bad, you might as well fucking make sure I know everything.”

“Liam.” Lip says stiffly, and Liam gets up, abandoning his dinner. He slips out the back door without a word.

Mickey didn’t even know he was there. The moment distracts him a little. His side aches again; he stood up too fast.

“The social worker was here, man.” Mickey says when the door closes behind Liam. He’s tired. “Where were you?”

“I was at a meeting.” Lip says. It’s sincere, he even shrugs a little. That’s just the way it is, the shrug says. That’s just where I was.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey says, and he feels his blood boiling again. “It’s the same fucking meeting every time.”

“I dunno, man, it’s sure as hell keeping me from turning into my father.” Lip throws back. “What’s your excuse?”

“What the fuck did you say to me?” It doesn’t matter that it’s Lip. It’s like Mickey doesn’t even recognize who he’s talking to anymore. He kicks the cabinet door shut with a crack, advances on Lip fast. “The fuck did you say?”

“Talking about your fucking dad, Mick.” Lip says. He pushes Mickey, and Mickey pushes back, hard, but the movement agitates his wound and Mickey recoils just as quickly.

“Don’t you ever say I’m anything like my dad.” Mickey hisses, grabbing his side. “I’m not like that piece of shit. I’m not. Got that? I’m not.”

“The fuck happened to you, man?” Lip says. He’s breathing hard but he doesn’t look pissed anymore. He grabs at Mickey’s hands when Mickey doesn’t answer. There’s blood on them. He’s bled through his shirt.

“Mick—”

And then Ian’s bounding down the stairs. “What the hell is going on?” he asks.

Mickey breaks free from Lip’s grasp harshly. “Just trying to figure out why the fuck everyone’s trying to unload this family onto me.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me.” Mickey snaps. “You Gallaghers only ever think about yourselves, huh? Easy to go back to living your own lives when there’s someone new to dump the kids on.”

“That’s not true—” Lip starts.

“Mick, your hands—” Ian says.

“Who am I, fucking Mary Poppins or some shit? You think I know what family is? You think I know how this is supposed to work? You couldn’t have picked a worse fucking guy for the job.”

“Mickey, listen to me.” Lip says. He’s holding up his hands again, surrendering. “You know what kind of family you’re a part of now, right? It’s just us. There’s no one else but us. No one’s in charge, okay? We tried that shit out, look where it got us. But I…I just relapsed, Mick, you got that? I just relapsed and it could happen again, and Ian’s meds could stop working when we least expect them to, and Debbie’s in jail and like it or not – and I don’t like it, for the record – you’re looking pretty fucking stable at the moment.”

“Fuck that.” Mickey says. He looks at Ian for help, but Ian nods.

“Lip’s right.” He says.

Mickey scoffs. “You in on this, too?”

“No one’s dumping this family on you.” Ian insists. “We don’t need anyone to take care of us. But you’ve got a steady job and you’re better with the kids than you think, especially Franny, and…I don’t know, Mick, it’s like—”

The back door opens and Lip whirls around to tell Liam to beat it but it’s Carl, back from God knows where, eating a burger.

“‘Sup,” he says by way of greeting after he swallows, casual in a way that cuts through the argument. He doesn’t stop to survey the situation and frankly doesn’t care. He ignores his brothers completely and nods at Mickey.

“Yo,” he says. “You get my text?”

“Jesus – and where the fuck were you?” Mickey says, breath caught in his throat. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“Turned my phone off, man.” Carl shrugs. “Laid low for a while.” He glances at the blood on Mickey’s hands, the stain on his shirt creeping out from his jacket. “See you weren’t so lucky.”

“Hold on.” Ian says, frustrated. “Someone gonna tell us what this is about?”

“Don’t—”

“Terry’s bitches tried to get me to narc on Mickey.” Carl says easily, ignoring Mickey. “Guess they found him anyway.”

Ian steps forward, worry etched on his face. “Mick,” he says quietly, reaching out.

But Mickey’s stepping back, holding up his hands. “No, man.” His mind is spinning. He needs to get out of here. “I’m done talking about this.”

“Mick—”

“I need some space.” Mickey insists. He swerves past Ian when he reaches for Mickey again. Storms up the stairs without another word.

\--

It’s hard to storm off in a house of eight and a court-mandated curfew.

Mickey spends half an hour in the bathroom, maybe more, cleaning himself up. Gingerly takes off his jacket and shirt and inspects where he’d been stabbed. Couple of quick pokes, nothing deep, but the damn wounds sure bleed a lot. He searches around for some rubbing alcohol, some gauze. When he wraps the wound up good and tight he sheds the rest of his clothes just to get out of them.

He’s had enough chest injuries in his time to know showering would ruin the work he had just put in to bandaging himself up, so he ends up drawing a makeshift bath and sits on the edge of the tub, sorta splashes water over his arms, his face. Scrubs the sweat and grime off of him with a bar of soap. There’s a good-sized bruise starting to form under his left bicep. He can’t place when this happened, but it doesn’t matter. He’s too tired to go over the whole thing again, tally up the points, see who won. They got their message across – he’s a piece of shit no good faggot – Mickey got that loud and clear. And they managed to stick him in the side. Mickey’s not sure what else Terry had in mind, except Mickey six feet under. He’d have to try that one another day. Maybe send some new goons.

He stays in the bathroom until he no longer feels like he’s going to punch the next person who looks at him funny. Then he runs a hand along his face. Lets out a breath. He wants a cigarette.

He shoves his clothes in the hamper, bloody shirt and all. He wraps a towel around his waist, emerges from the bathroom and pads over to his bedroom, where he knows Ian will be.

And he is, sitting on their bed, leaning against the wall. They sorta nod at each other, in the way you do when you see someone too soon after a fight, after a blowup, and you’re not sure what to say to each other.

“Where’s the kid?” Mickey says first, to break the silence as he slips on a pair of boxers.

“With Carl.” Ian says. “C’mere.”

Mickey nears him, tentative, letting Ian take his hand and tug him closer.

“Jesus, Mick.” Ian breathes out. He traces a hand along the gauze, careful not to touch Mickey’s wound. “Mick, if I had known—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mickey says, and it’s a shit response, one that meant little when they were dating and means even less now that they’re married, that they’re bound to each other. He falters, tries again. “They barely touched me.”

Ian doesn’t seem satisfied with this answer, but he pulls Mickey down until he’s sitting on the bed next to him.

“How many were there?” Ian asks.

“Two.”

“You know them?”

“No, no, I didn’t…I didn’t recognize them.”

“Guess we’re out of date on your dad’s associates.” Ian says. “We could see if Iggy—”

“I don’t wanna talk to Iggy.” Mickey says. It’s more of a plea, really, his shoulders dropping. “I’m fucking exhausted, man, I don’t wanna—”

“Okay,” Ian says, rubbing Mickey’s back reassuringly. “We’ll find out who they are some other way.”

Mickey lets his head rest in his hands, focuses only on the feel of Ian’s hand along his back, rubbing up and down. They’re silent for a while, and Mickey’s dimly aware that it’s their first night alone together in days, a week maybe, that if he were wise he’d take advantage of the moment, but no one’s ever accused him of being wise.

“I got the job.” Ian says, to fill the silence, when he feels enough time has passed to say something new. “They’re giving me a couple days to turn nocturnal. Told them I’ve been looking after Franny, said I could use a few days to find someone to look after her, you know, especially if things don’t go well for Debbie. And I—”

“How can you be so fucking calm right now, man?” Mickey asks.

“I’m not calm.” Ian returns. “I’m scared.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.” Mickey says. He starts to speak but stops, shakes his head.

“What?” Ian prods gently.

“I ain’t used to this.” Mickey says. “This. I’ve never…I’ve never had to…I feel like…Ian I feel like if something happened to…” he stops. Nothing’s coming out right, and he’s only dimly aware of how the words sound coming out of his mouth. “You’ve been a Gallagher your whole life,” he says then. “But I…I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to do this.”

“Mickey,” Ian whispers and he leans forward and presses his lips to Mickey’s temple, to his cheek, to his jaw, settles his head in the crook of Mickey’s neck. “I love you.”

“I love you.” Mickey says, hands reaching out to hold Ian’s arms in place around him, to keep him there. Then: “Coming outta prison this time’s been different.”

“We’re not kids anymore, huh?” Ian says.

“No,” Mickey agrees with a soft laugh. “Gotta lotta fucking responsibilities.”

“Maybe it’s for the best.” Ian muses. “We did a lotta shit when we had more time.”

Mickey hums in agreement. Cranes his neck to the side to release tension, until he hears a pop, then the other side.

“Mick, about my family,” Ian says when Mickey starts to unravel himself from Ian’s arms, starts to pull back the covers and settle into bed.

“Get in bed, man.”

“Mick.” Ian insists, although he does as he’s told, settles into his side of the bed. “Lip and I, we just—”

“I got it.” Mickey says. “Turn off the light, man. Don’t wanna get into this again.”

He rolls onto his good side, pretends to sleep. Pretends he can’t hear Ian deliberating before he turns off the lamp. But soon Ian slips his arms around Mickey’s side, settles into him like always, and Mickey allows himself to feel fully enveloped by his husband, fully protected, before he drifts off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s a window of time, an hour or two, maybe, between when Mickey gets back from work and before Ian starts work. Those hours are a goddamn commodity. You’ve got to get Ian good and awake, and since the night is his morning, you gotta get his meds in, wash that down with some OJ, maybe some toast, and he’s gotta get dressed and ready and that eats into the time, and everything’s quick, both of them knowing that if Ian does well now he might get switched to dayshift, might catch the eye of his felon-wary boss, so being on time is important, and that means they only have a little time to—

“There.” Ian says, voice constricted. “There. There.” He’s gripping Mickey’s hips hard, head buried in Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey’s got both their cocks in his hand, pumping up and down. He grins when Ian bucks his hips, when his jaw slackens.

There’s commotion downstairs – there always is – but it doesn’t matter, right now nothing matters, they only have a few minutes to spare, and Ian—

Ian comes with a groan, knees buckling. They stumble backwards, Ian trying to steady himself when he’s on another stratosphere, when his head’s spinning, and Mickey ends up pressed against the wall, laughing, Ian slack against him, kissing his neck lazily. Then Ian is reaching for him, jerking him with increased tempo, until Mickey comes too and sees stars.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers, and he’s laughing again, and Ian is too, the both of them holding the other up in their sweaty arms, with their slick hands. “Fuck,” he says. “I love you.”

Ian’s kisses are wet, open-mouthed. He likes Mickey up against the wall like this. Mickey knows he does.

“Ian!” They hear someone call from downstairs. It’s Debbie. “You have to go to work!”

Ian breaks the kiss, groans. He rests his head against Mickey’s forehead for a moment, quiets his breaths. Traces a hand along Mickey’s healing chest wound. They took the gauze off a few days ago. Showered together. Ian cleaned his wound and kissed Mickey and they let the water pour over them. Forgot about everything for a moment.

“See you when I get back?” Ian says.

“I’ll be here.” Mickey says, hand coming to rest on Ian’s cheek. They smile at each other, stupid, soft grins. “Okay,” Mickey says, then. “Get outta here.”

\--

There’s some behind-the-scenes work done right before Debbie’s next hearing. The seventeen-year-old has changed her mind, wants to drop the charges. Thinks Debbie has suffered enough or something, whatever the fuck. Lip gets the call from Debbie’s lawyer on a Saturday, and he scrambles to get everyone ready, runs next door to snag Kev’s keys to his car.

Mickey’s working a shift but he gets four calls at once, Gallaghers trying to reach him left and right, and he’s as giddy as they are when he hears the news, actually fucking giddy, he can’t believe it. He thinks of Franny. He thinks, things’ll work out for her now. And when he gets home that night Franny is bouncing off the walls, and Debbie’s surrounded by her brothers, and she gives Mickey such a warm smile that Mickey can’t help but grin back.

\--

Lip’s outside an old church one night, smoking a cigarette. Debbie’s been home a few days. Lip’s still wary of the whole situation, ain’t convinced this Julie girl or whatever her name is won’t press charges again, just to do it, but Lip also thinks maybe there’s some rule against that, so he tries to worry less about his kid sister.

The AA meeting’s about to start. Lip isn’t much into the small talk that happens before. Just wants the meeting to start already, so he usually waits out here.

“Hey, man, am I late?” another regular says as he approaches, a little out of breath.

“No.” Lip says, surveying the man. “You miss the bus or something?”

“Yeah.” The man answers with a sheepish laugh. “Big time. You got another one of those?”

“Yeah,” Lip says, handing him his pack of cigarettes and his lighter. “But I’m quitting after this pack.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man agrees. “I quit last year.”

He went to high school with Lip, part of another one of those big families with kids who got into too much trouble and with parents too drunk to care. Lip’s not sure what happened to the other siblings. They’re probably still around. Hardly anyone ever leaves the South Side.

“You hear Old Man Milkovich is back in the slammer already?” His old classmate says. Despite missing the bus he seems to be in a good mood. “Fucking new record or something for him.”

“Yeah.” Lip says, blowing out smoke. “I heard he’s got plenty of guys on the outside though.”

“He’s got a couple new recruits, I heard.”

“Oh yeah?” Lip says. “You know ‘em?”

“Nah.” The man says, shrugs a little. “Not my scene anymore.”

“Right.” Lip says. Puts his cigarette back in his mouth.

The man glances at Lip. “But I know how to find them,” he says. Raises an eyebrow. “If you’re lookin’ to meet them for yourself.”

\--

Lip meets them, so to say. Along with Ian and Carl. And a couple baseball bats. They’re big guys, oafs, but they’re high out of their minds when Carl picks the lock to their front door, and the three of them make quick work of sending their own message to Terry Milkovich.

Mickey’s completely oblivious, which is probably a good thing. He’d’ve killed for a chance to wail on Terry’s goons, to get some amount of revenge, but Lip had worried Mickey would be too recognizable on that side of the neighborhood, where his father still reigned supreme and where Mickey had spent his youth terrorizing others.

Ian tells him instead the three of them are going to the store, and when Mickey doesn’t buy that Ian says they’re planning something for Debbie, now that she’s back, and figured Mickey would rather just let the brothers handle it and this is true so he relents, reaches over to kiss Ian goodbye, settles back into the couch where he’s watching basketball with Liam.

The three of them come back and Mickey’s talking to Debbie in the kitchen, who’s principal job during their outing was to keep Mickey distracted, and Mickey sees the wild look in Carl’s eyes and knows immediately something’s not right.

“Yo, Mickey,” Carl says, on some demented adrenaline high, flanked by his older brothers on either side. He’s holding a baseball bat over his shoulders. “You can stop looking over your shoulder.”

Debbie grins and Mickey raises his eyebrows, glances first at Debbie and then at Ian, who’s got the beginnings of a bruise under one eyelid.

“What the fuc—”

“Just don’t say we never did anything for you, huh, Mick?” Lip says. He slaps Mickey on the shoulder as he walks past him, into the living room, and flops on the couch next to Liam.

“I told them to.” Debbie says, but it’s clear by the looks of them that they didn’t need much convincing. “After all, you really looked after Franny while I was locked up. We owed you one.”

“Are they okay?” Mickey asks, glancing back at Lip and Carl and then at Ian. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, babe.” Ian laughs, letting Mickey tilt his head, inspect him for any other bruises.

“Don’t ‘babe’ me,” Mickey says with a scowl. “Your PO could find out you pulled this shit.”

“No one’s gonna find out.” Ian assures him. “We were careful.”

“I don’t need anyone doing my dirty work for me.” Mickey says, quietly. “They were after me, not you.”

“Mmhmm.” Ian nods. “You’re welcome.” He smiles when Mickey’s not satisfied with that answer, pulls him into a kiss anyway, reveling in the moment Mickey’s shoulders drop in relief, when he feels Mickey relax.

\--

Some habits die hard, even with things relatively back to normal. One night, Debbie wakes up and Franny’s whimpering in her sleep.

“Sweetie,” Debbie says, hurrying out of bed, shaking Franny awake. “Sweetie, it’s just a dream.”

Franny wakes up and curls up against her mother, crying softly.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Debbie says, sitting on Franny’s bed. “Do you wanna sleep with Mommy tonight?”

“No,” Franny says, to the surprise of Debbie, and she wriggles free from Debbie’s grasp and disappears from the room, down the hall.

“Franny!” Debbie whispers, grabbing her house robe, going after her.

Franny’s already tugging on the doorknob to Ian and Mickey’s room, and soon she slips inside.

Debbie can’t imagine anything worse than waking up the sleeping giant that is Mickey Milkovich. She hesitates to even go in their room – knows Ian is off work for the weekend and that it’s one of their only nights together.

But when she peers through the door into their room Franny is crawling into their bed without any hesitation. Ian and Mickey are sprawled next to each other, Ian on his back and Mickey on his chest, arm draped across Ian’s chest.

When Franny climbs on the bed, ignoring her mother’s stage-whispering, Mickey jolts awake like he’s been slapped. It takes him a moment to adjust to the light pouring in from the hallway, to Debbie at the door, to Franny in their bed.

“Uncle Mickey,” Franny whispers, and then Ian’s stirring, because Franny’s placed her hands on Ian’s chest to lean closer to Mickey. “Uncle Mickey, are you awake?”

“Franny, come back here!” Debbie half pleads.

But instead of biting her head off, Mickey’s surprisingly calm. “What’s the matter, kid, you can’t sleep?”

Franny shakes her head.

“Bad dream, huh.” Mickey says. He rolls over onto his side, rubs his eyes. “Well don’t wake Uncle Ian, huh?”

“I won’t.” She whispers.

“Mmkay.” Mickey’s only half-aware of what’s going on. He glances over at the door, sees Debbie’s there and gives her an all-okay sign. “Shut the door.” He says, and soon he’s settling onto his chest again, falling back asleep before Debbie can even ask a question.

 _Okay_ , Debbie thinks to herself as she shuts the door. _I missed some things._

\--

With Ian gone nights now, Mickey’s got hours to himself in the evening. He takes to playing video games with Carl or watching sports with Liam. Sometimes when Lip needs a break he’ll come over to the house, or sometimes it’s Tammi who does, and Mickey’ll chat with whomever for a while. Sometimes Lip shares some more Gallagher family secrets with Mickey, shows up with more papers. But he’s learned it’s best not to force these on Mickey. Debbie goes out most evenings, but since her release she goes out later, spends more time at home with Franny.

It’s Liam most of all who’s grateful for the company. He starts to expect his evenings with Mickey, someone with whom to fill his boring summer nights. After Mickey feels safe around the South Side again Liam takes him on long walks after dinner, showing him all around – here’s where he goes to school and here’s where they found Frank once and here’s where his friend lives, the one who’s basketball career he manages, and Mickey tries to keep up with it all.

Mickey thinks if the roles were reversed, if he were ten and Liam was his age, Mickey’d have jack shit to show him. He’d say, there’s the group home and there’s the other one and there’s the other one. He’d show Liam where his dad went to buy Nazi medals and shit, like legit Nazi shit. He’d show Liam the Alibi. He’d show Liam the abandoned parking garage he’d fuck off to when he didn’t want to go to school.

But he looks at the academy Liam attends with the fountain and the trimmed hedges and he thinks maybe it’s best not to show Liam any of that shit.

But other times Liam’s Gallagher streak shows, like the time he breaks into the school just to prove he can, and then he and Mickey walk around the empty halls just for the thrill of it. They go into the cafeteria, steal some canned food, take it back with them.

And it’s Liam who still doesn’t know all the tricks in the book of Living Without Parents, the book of Growing Up with No Money. He’s only ten, after all. There are still bits of knowledge Mickey can impart. So when he and Mickey walk past the old movie theater one night, and Liam’s stomach growls, Mickey only hesitates slightly before he says, “Want some popcorn for the road?”

“I don’t have any money.” Liam answers.

“You don’t need money.” Mickey says, already heading into the theater. When Liam eyes him warily Mickey waves him over. “C’mon,” he says. “Lemme show you the ropes.”

\--

“Happy one month!” Larry says to him one afternoon, when Mickey’s zoned out, focused on the three little pink fish in the big aquarium.

“You talking about me and Ian?” Mickey asks after realizing Larry’s talking to him.

“Yes!” Larry says. “One month of marriage. This is a huge accomplishment, Mr. Milkovich. A lot of my parolees don’t get this lucky. Most don’t find happiness like you do.”

Mickey shifts in his seat. Nods.

“I mean it, Mr. Milkovich, I don’t know how you’ve done it, frankly, with your track record, but you’ve kept your nose clean since you were released, you’ve settled down, have barely missed any work…”

Mickey thinks about any number of the misdemeanors he’s committed since he was released but has to concede the work point. “Thanks.” He says curtly, a little forced, maybe.

“And you seem better, certainly, then you were the last few times I met with you.” Larry continues.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. Shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Great.” Larry smiles, and it’s genuine, so Mickey has to look away. “I think that’s all we need to discuss, then. I won’t keep you here any longer.”

Mickey starts to stand. “Listen, Larry,” he says. “You know Ian’s PO?”

“I do.” Larry says.

“You think, uh, you think maybe you could pull some strings?” Mickey says, and it’s weird to ask, weird to ask for anything of Larry, weird to accept his heaps of praise like that’s normal for him, like he’s ever sat on the other side of a desk as someone else and been complimented, been told he had exceeded any expectations. “His PO’s got him in a nightshift gig.” He says. “I only get a few hours with him a day.” He doesn’t feel like elaborating. “Anyway, if you know the PO. Don’t go out of your way or nothin’ if you don’t. I can handle it.” He can’t have this on his conscience, either. Larry the PO doing him a favor.

But Larry positively beams at him. “I’ll look into, Mr. Milkovich.” He says. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Mickey nods. “Okay,” he says. “Uh, thanks. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Larry says, and Mickey feels like if he nods politely one more time he’ll explode, and he’s sure he looks like an idiot, feels like one too, but he also believes Larry, thinks maybe he will track down Ian’s PO, try to do something to help.

It’s weird to start to trust. Mickey’s not sure what to do with himself so he tugs on his jacket and shakes Larry’s outstretched hand, and then he slips his hands into his pockets, worried they’re shaking even though they’re not.

There’s a row of chairs outside of Larry’s office, in this mundane little waiting area. Two of the chairs are occupied, and Mickey glances over at the kids.

“He ain’t throwin’ me back in.” He says, holding up his hands to Liam and little Franny. “No handcuffs.”

“That took forever.” Liam says, and he takes Franny’s hand as they trail Mickey out the door, follow him down the street.

It’s a bright summer day. Mickey’s first summer out of the pen in years. First summer back on the South Side in what feels like a millennium. It feels like a millennium, in any case, between his teenage years, ripped cutoffs and dirt caked under his fingernails, chugging beers and psyching himself up to go see the redheaded cashier at the Kash & Grab.

He glances back behind him, and although he’s not sure where he’s walking yet, Liam and Franny are following him. Although he’s a fuckup, a Milkovich, without prospects, out of prison by a fluke, he thinks maybe, well – there are some things he knows. For all he doesn’t know, he knows Liam’s got a yearly checkup coming around the corner. He knows Franny gets bad dreams sometimes, but if she knows you’re there that’ll make her feel better, that it’s the nearness of someone else that helps. He knows the name and number of Lip’s sponsor. He knows he’s got to keep an eye on Carl, who may or may not be in over his head with this police thing. He knows Debbie became a mother too soon but that she loves Franny. That she’s determined to make something for herself and for her kid.

And he knows Ian’s medications like the back of his hand. Knows the difference between down and depressed, between excited and manic. Knows Ian’s adjusting to being back, too, that he’s keeping his head down until he’s off parole, determined not to fuck anything up. Determined to make this work. Determined to make them work.

Mickey knows this about the Gallaghers, knows this about his family. It terrifies him, sometimes, to think of them as his family. But the alternative is worse, and if family means knowing birthdays, knowing to show up to court when you get arrested, then Mickey’s knee fucking deep in the Gallagher fold. And if Terry’s still got men out there looking for him, lying in wait until Mickey’s alone again, until he’s vulnerable enough to attack, then Mickey might as well make the fucking most of what time he has.

“Yo,” he calls back to the kids. “Keep up.”


End file.
